Marc Myers writes daily on jazz legends and legendary jazz recordings

November 2011

November 30, 2011

As long-time readers of this blog know, one of my favorite songs is Alfie. I love the rising and falling melody, the challenging lyrics and the song's big build. I've posted on the song in the past here and here. I'm sort of torn between Cilla Black's version and the one Dionne Warwick recorded. Black's has that nervous breakdown thing going, that edge, while Dionne's is as smooth as suede. So at Burt's home, when I mentioned how much I loved the song, he got up from the sofa at one point and went over to the piano to play and sing it for me.

Imagine my shock. Burt said he was going to have to play it that night at a tribute to Hal David and needed to warm up anyway. Burt's voice is rarely in tune, which is part of its brave charm. But what Burt lacks in perfect pitch he more than makes up for in passion and heart. When Burt played and sang Alfie for me, he was immediately all the way inside that song, feeling every note and word. Which is what's interesting about Burt: He unashamedly loves the sound of his own songs, as if someone else had written them and he's a fan.

In Part 3 of my five part conversation with Burt, captured for my Wall Street Journal profile a week ago, the composer, arranger, conductor and producer talks about his new musical, Barbra Streisand, David Merrick and why he never thought he'd be writing for the stage again:

Marc Myers: Some Lovers will open soon [now in previews], but the last time you wrote the music for a musical was Promises, Promises in 1968. That's a long time.Burt Bacharach: Yes, it is. Promises was a hit, but I kind of got turned off by shows. [Pictured: Burt Bacharach rehearses cast of Promises, Promises in 1968]

MM: Why?BB: A week and a half after the show opened, I got a phone call from the producer, David Merrick [pictured]. I was out in Palm Springs at the time. I was exhausted from the whole experience. The show was doing well. David said, “I want you to know, Burt, that we did a Saturday matinee and [composer] Richard Rodgers was there. And you had a substitute drummer, a substitute trumpet player…” There were like five subs in the band.

MM: What did you think?BB: I said to myself, “I don’t want to do this anymore. I don’t want to do another show.” I like it better when I got it and it’s there, just the way you wanted it, on tape, in a recording studio.

MM: Speaking of perfection and control, you’ve been quoted as saying that you like working with artists who torture themselves. What did you mean by that?BB: I don’t think I said that. If I did, I didn’t mean it that way.

MM: Do you have that same feeling about perfection and control today that you did in 1968?BB: I kind of learned more recently that if there’s a pimple or two in a take, it’s OK. If the guitar player is off, you can fix it with Pro Tools. But before, you couldn’t. But if the feel is there and it’s all there, there is something magical about the immediacy of having it all captured perfectly…

MM: Is there a perfect album of Burt Bacharach songs?BB: I did an album with Ronnie Isley, which is an album I’m quite proud of [Isley Meets Bacharach, 2003]. To do what we did with two studios at Capitol, with the string section in Studio A and the other members of the orchestra in Studio B. And to be able to have a singer who’s going to give me something, and a male voice no less. It’s a killer. And in some cases there were only two takes. We got Alfie on the first take.

MM: In the 60s and 70s, your songs seemed crafted to ensure that singers and musicians would be out on a ledge. BB: Good point. What I’m trying to do, really, is make a miniature movie when I write songs. That's why there are peaks and valleys, high points and suspense. I've never been much for one-level records.

MM: Even the best singers were challenged by your music.BB: Challenged is another good word. I wonder if I could do now what I did with Barbra Streisand on Close to You. To have the audacity and balls to sing with her—and sing harmony with her, and have that kind of beauty with the string quartet playing live and the way Dwight [Hemion] directed it and shot it. It looks like I’m falling madly in love with her.

MM: And her, you. BB: Could I do that again? I don’t think so. It’s a time in your life when you can do something like that.

MM: So that call from David Merrick was distressing?BB: Look, when I walked away from Promises and heard David tell me in so many words, “You don’t have the musicians you wanted—you’ve got five subs,” it was disheartening, and I no longer had an interest in theater. But now is different.

MM: Do you feel strongly about the music for Some Lovers?BB: You bet. Do I feel that there’s anything I’ve written that could be… Oh Jesus, never mind, that could be bad [laughs]. I like it all. Steven [Sater] is a very good person to write with because he gives me the lyrics first on everything. Because he is so musical in his wordage, the way he … his lyrics don’t dictate the melody but dictate where I can go with it.

[Burt gets up from the sofa and sits down at his walnut baby grand piano to play one of the songs from Some Lovers: Ready to Be Done With You.]

MM: Wow, that’s beautiful.BB: You see, the singer’s pain has to bleed through. There’s a lot of pain… Maybe I’m feeling my pain for them. The hurt. The hurt that I’ve given other people over the years. There’s a lot of heartbreak in this musical. There are some really good moments in the show.

MM: Are you expecting big things for the musical?BB: Naturally you hope it gets off the ground and has the legs to get to Broadway. It’s a small show. But this is what I should be doing now, not go into the studio with a new artist. Soon after Promises, Promises I vowed never to do another show because each night’s results were different. But this [Some Lovers] is really what I should be doing now. The record business is gone, but I still have songs to write.

MM: Going back to how you led recording sessions in the ‘60s, didn’t you risk crushing or shredding singers in your search for something magical?BB: I always got the most I could from them. You push gently and work with them and give them love. You smile and say softly, “Give me one more.” You never get magic by beating up singers or attacking them.

MM: But after a while, isn’t there a risk of diminishing returns?BB: You know, I just don’t give a shit. I’m just going for it, man. You know? You smile and say, “Give me one more.” Everything was live then in the studio, which I loved. There were so many elements to worry about. I had to wonder and worry, “Did we take the tempo too fast when the singer came in?” And lots of other things. I really wanted to get as close to perfection in a take as possible. In that era, splicing tape took forever. [Pictured: Burt Bacharach with Dusty Springfield]

MM: But weren’t you hearing things that elude most people?BB: Not really. The average listener hears more than you think. I don’t really want to be in a recording situation with someone who can’t sing. For example, we got the maximum out of Ronan Keating earlier this year [When Ronan Met Burt]. There are some really good tracks in there. He’s such a pro. We had an hour and a half for each track, and he pulled it off. I met him for the first time on a Monday morning, and he was gone that Saturday. And that made you work in a different way [snaps]. My favorite track on that album is This House Is Empty Now.

MM: Your album with Elvis Costello, Painted From Memory, remains a brilliant work. BB: Yes, it really is something, isn’t it? [pause] I love what we did.

Be aware, these are all Burt's own recordings—either singing or arranging, producing and conducting. Many are instrumentals. The remastered albums in the set include Hit Maker (1963), Reach Out (1967), Make It Easy on Yourself (1969), Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid (1971), Living Together (1973), In Concert (1974), Futures (1977), Woman (1979) and quite a few singles and unreleased tracks.

JazzWax clips: For my money, there is no Burt Bacharach clip that matches the one you're about to see. Taped in 1971 during a live TV special, Burt and Barbra Streisand talk and then sing (They Long to Be) Close to You, which Burt and Hal David co-wrote and the Carpenters recorded. Every frame of this clip speaks volumes on so many levels. Dig the egos and how Streisand tries to manage and then seduce Burt. Fascinating stuff...

Burt and Elvis Costello's 1998 album Painted From Memory is one of the finest albums of the '90s. Burt wrote the music and Costello the lyrics. It's a perfect album in so many ways. Here's My Thief, one of the songs they recorded for Sessions at West 54th, a live, by-invitation-only performance that was taped and released only on VHS tape. I hear there may be a remastering of the CD as well as a DVD release sometime next year. Fingers crossed...

One of the finest Christmas songs ever written was composed by Burt Bacharach. It's The Bell That Couldn't Jingle. I warn you, though, it's darn addictive. Listen to how sophisticated the melody is, yet it's immensely singable...

November 29, 2011

Pulling into Burt Bacharach's driveway a few weeks ago in Los Angeles, I looked in the open garage. There, parked neatly, was a relatively new white Jaguar XJ12—exactly the kind of car I had imaged Burt would drive: Sporty, comfortable, powerful and, once upon a time, English-made. Entering his ranch-style home, I waited in his music room for a few minutes before he arrived. Naturally, his walls were covered with photos of celebrities and musicians. There was even one of Burt and Dizzy Gillespie. Which made me think: If not for Burt and Hal David's music, jazz might have suffered even more than it did during the rock era. [Photo at top of Burt Bacharach at A&M's Los Angeles studios in 1972 recording Living Together, by Paul Slaughter]

Think about how many jazz artists in the '60s recorded Burt's music, in many cases devoting entire albums to his songs. Burt's compositions were billed as pop, but jazz musicians knew they were a sophisticated hybrid that gave jazz artists plenty of space for improvisation. Unlike many of the restrictive tunes by singer-songwriters of the '60s, Burt's melodies were adaptable by anyone who could pull them off.

In Part 3 of my conversation with Burt for a profile that appeared in last week's Wall Street Journal, the composer talks about a big turning point in his career and the reasons behind his quest for complete artistic control:

Marc Myers: What was turning point in the ‘60s for you? Was it the Anyone Who Had a Heart and Walk on By session of ’63?Burt Bacharach: That was pretty good, because if you look at where I was [pause]. Actually, the first turning point was in '56 when I started working with Hal [David], when we finally got two heads. Things like The Story of My Life for Marty Robbins [1957] and then Magic Moments for Perry Como [1957]. But that wasn’t going to be the way, by writing old-fashioned pop tunes.

MM: How so?BB: We needed a new sound. I think the really big turning point for us was in ’62. Calvin Carter, the head of a&r at Vee-Jay records in Chicago took a chance on me. I had never done a record date. Calvin said, “If you want to cut Make It Easy on Yourself with Jerry Butler, do it the way you feel it. I’ll be in the booth. You write the arrangement, you conduct the orchestra and play piano on it.” So that was a big break in terms of seeing through my vision.

MM: Were you nervous?BB: I was. But the fact was, I think there were so many times before on my songs where the tempos were too fast, the string parts were overwritten—I was determined that Make It Easy on Yourself was going to be different. I was going to break the mold. I was going to arrange the way I wanted to. I never liked crowded recordings. And many arrangers who took on my songs often put too much in there—wall-to-wall strings and so on. So Calvin’s [pictured] challenge was a big break, creatively. It gave me the license to say, “OK I’ll take the responsibility. If it comes out really good, I win and I’ll take the credit. And if it comes out bad, well…”

MM: Didn’t you have this kind of freedom before? BB: Not really. There were songs I wrote that were pretty damn good. But the a&r man [producer] would cramp my style. He’d say, “Well, it’s weird because, you know, I like it but you’ve got that first phrase, and it’s a three-bar phrase instead of four bars. If you fill it out and get a four-bar phrase, it will be more magical.”

MM: A lot of second-guessing.BB: It was. I'd really want it to be a three-bar phrase but I said to myself, “Maybe the guy’s right because he’s in charge.” But then I’d always think, “Maybe he’s also the guy who gives the order to rush forward and everyone gets killed." But I'd also get in line since he was running the session. When Make It Easy on Yourself became a hit, the experience gave me license to take full control to get the results I wanted.

MM: What did Dionne Warwick think of Butler’s version?BB: [Laughs] Butler’s track came out beautifully—so beautifully that Dionne was pissed. Dionne got pissed about a lot of things back in the ‘60s. Certain things… well listen, I understand. She was our voice for some time. She really was. And she didn't like that other artists were singing the same songs. But there are certain things you can’t control. Dionne would get angry at the female British singers, and I’d tell her, “Look, I can’t control that.” To her credit, Dionne's versions always came out on top. Her voice was so fluent and fluid. Aretha, too. Nearly everyone else sounded under duress singing my melodies.

MM: Anyone Who Had a Heart in 1963 was a different kind of song for you—a little darker, a little more painful and a lot tougher to sing.BB: I never intended to break the rules. But if you look at the music for Anyone Who Had a Heart, it changes time signatures quite a bit. It starts out in 5/4, then it's in 4/4 and ends in 7/8. I remember going to the Apollo Theater in New York when the record was a fair-sized hit by then and Dionne was singing it. The house band surrounded me backstage and said, “Why do you make it so difficult? Why don’t you just write metrically?” [laughs] Believe me, I’m not doing it intentionally to break rules. I’m really not.

MM: What did you say to them?BB: I said, “Just play the music. Hear it in your heads. Don’t count bars. Feel it. It will be very natural.” But I don’t know if it ever was natural to them [laughs].

MM: In addition to composing, you often arranged, produced and conducted your music on recording sessions. That’s a ton of work. Why bother?BB: Control, I guess. Control. Creative control. I eventually got crazy with the Jerry Butler record. I was afraid they were going to press it on real crap. So I went out to Vee-Jay’s record factory. They were using an injection molding system or something lousy like that. I said to the record company heads, “Hey, you went a cheaper way.” They said, “Hey, you sold 7,000 copies in Philadelphia alone today.” I said, “Yeah, but if it was pressed right, with the right material…”

MM: So for you, control was and is about getting what you hear in your head out of a singer and orchestra?BB: Yes. It's not a power trip. I’m just going for the maximum. I always go for 100%. There’s this famous film of Cilla Black recording Alfie. You can find it on YouTube. And there’s Sir George [Martin] in the control room producing and wondering what I’m doing calling for so many takes.

MM: Were you lost in the moment?BB: What it really comes down to is this: I’m very nice, I walk into the studio I stay nice. But I get very confident when I’m in there. Nervous and confident. And I wind up doing all kinds of things, you know? Like, I never asked Sir George whether an earlier take was acceptable as I plowed on. He finally came on the monitor speaker and said he thought we had what we wanted on a much earlier take [laughs].

MM: Which probably wouldn’t have mattered to you anyway.BB: [Laughs] I always keep driving with one goal in mind. And, yes, I call for too many takes sometimes and go back to take No. 3 or No. 4 for the master. And that’s OK. I need to exhaust all efforts before I’m satisfied that we have what we need.

MM:Promises, Promises is another back-breaker.BB: One of the things about the original Promises musical in 1968… Sure, Jerry Orbach [pictured] by the third month was saying to me, “Why did you write this thing? Why does it have to be so fast?” But you know, there’s urgency in what that song is supposed to be about. “Promises, promises I’m through with promises, promises…” Dionne sang it beautifully, and her voice was really shining through.

MM: Actually, it strikes me that you're actually seeking a kind of imperfection.BB: How so?

MM: By pushing singers and musicians, you seem to be seeking a bit of sheer desperation, a near-cracking feel.BB: That’s true. But there are many aspects to this. In addition to the singer, I’m trying juggle a range of things as the conductor. I’m trying to get the best performance from the drummer and from the bass and strings. And so I’m trying to get everyone up to the top of their game. When I call for multiple takes, it might be because just one instrument was off.

Here's an exhausted Cilla Black messing up a take of Alfie. Move the bar to 1:52 if you want to see it immediately, but I'd recommend watching the entire clip, which details what went on during the session and includes fabulous studio images...

November 28, 2011

What lingers most after you have spent quality time with songwriter Burt Bacharach is the sound of his voice. In my Wall Street Journal profile last week, I describe it as shearling-soft. Burt's voice still has traces of Queens, N.Y., but it's plenty soothing and assuring. And the way he releases words in a sentence is a bit how kids let out string when flying kites. He seems to like to hear the rhythm of words and how they sound together, as though breaking them into measures. In fact, there's a cadence to everything he says. But the pauses and relaxed pace of his sentence delivery are equally thrilling. In music, these pauses are called "rests."

As it should be, considering how much hit music Burt has turned out since the early 1950s. On a list of post-1956 songwriters, Burt has had 133 hits and ranks No. 6—right after Paul McCartney, John Lennon and the Motown team of Lamont Dozier, Brian Holland and Edward Holland Jr. Put in perspective, Burt is a direct link to the great composers of the '30s and '40s—and author, with lyricist Hal David, of the American Songbook's final chapter.

Moments after Burt and I moved into his spacious living room to talk, I switched on my digital recorders. Burt then urged me to sit right next to him on the couch, virtually shoulder to shoulder. Which was perfect. We both sat low on the sofa, and it was as if we were in an English sports car, with Burt behind the wheel, both of us watching the road and scenery ahead of us zip by.

In Part 1 of my five-part interview with Burt, 83, the famed composer and winner of three Oscars and eight Grammys—whose new musical Some Lovers now is in previews at San Diego's Old Globe theater—talked about his dad and the early years:

Marc Myers: Your dad Bert was a men's fashion columnist. What style lessons did you pick up from him?Burt Bacharach: My dad was never a great promoter of himself. But he was the nicest guy in the world. He did more favors and free jobs for people. Someone from the clothing industry would call and say, “Bert, can you come up to Harrisburg [Penn.] to speak to a group? My dad would say, "Sure." The other guy would say, "How much do you want?" He’d say, “No, I’ll just do it.” So my dad always undercut himself. [Pictured: Burt Bacharach and his father, Bert, in a 1970s ad]

MM: No fashion or grooming tips?BB: You know, I’m very anti-dressing. I’m going to have to wear shoes tonight for a tribute to Hal David rather than sneakers. But when I get dressed up, I get dressed up. The way you see me now is the way I like to dress casually—in a tracksuit and sneakers. But I’m going to get dressed up tonight to do this tribute. Hal's 90 years old. Jesus, how did that happen? [laughs]

MM: How would you prefer to dress tonight?BB: I like to go on stage wearing jeans, a blazer and an open shirt. But I wouldn’t be comfortable like that given tonight's event. That's how I dressed during our performances in Italy over the summer on tour. But I keep evading your question because I don’t really know how to answer it. What did I learn from my father? I kind of learned maybe consideration of other people. I’m so grateful my parents lived to see part of my success. They were still around for that.

MM: Are you excited about Some Lovers, your new musical with Steven Sater, who wrote the book?BB: I really am. We did a reading the other day. It went very well. I’m really proud of the music. Some Lovers is a happy song, and I wish we could reprise it in the show. But I don’t think we can. We can’t find another place for it.

MM: Slightly off topic, but Alfie is one of the greatest songs ever written.BB: Yeah it’s a damn good song. You know what’s odd? I don’t sing much on tour anymore but I do sing Alfie. It’s sort of like I wait until I’m an hour into the music, after we're through the different medleys and all before I sing, to make sure the audience is on my side.

MM: Aren’t they on your side from the start?BB: Yeah, they are.

MM: You want to seduce the audience first?BB: Yeah. Right or wrong, I need to feel that I have their permission to sing. And I can sing Alfie way better than I can sing Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on My Head. Way better [laughs]. During our recent concerts in Italy, I started changing how we presented Raindrops. I had one of my singers, John Pagano, take it up to the bridge. Then I came in there. It’s better. There’s a comfort factor. I was never able to figure out why that song was so tough for me to sing, but it is—for me. And it isn’t really that tough a song.

MM: Your songs always have female singers sounding as though they’re on the verge of a nervous breakdown, as though there’s this panic or desperation setting in.BB: I always felt much more comfortable writing for the female voice.

MM: Why?BB: Women just kind of convey more emotion for me, you know? Even singers who I didn’t conduct, like Dusty Springfield, have that emotional thing on my songs.

MM: You always seemed to understand women far better than any other songwriter. Why is that?BB: It’s the feminine side of me, I think. I don’t know. It’s sheer emotion. I can get more with women. How am I going to get that with a guy. Luther [Vandross]? Yeah, but that was different when we worked together back in 1998. Think of Aretha on A House Is Not a Home—I mean, Jesus. And also what Luther did with the same song back in 1988.

MM: Did studying with Darius Milhaud help shape your sensitive side?BB: Darius Milhaud [pause]. That was a small composition class, just five of us, out at the Music Academy of the West in Santa Barbara. At the time I was hanging out in New York with Lou Harrisson and John Cage thinking maybe this is where I’d wind up, writing 12-tone classical music and things like that. So I went to study with Milhaud. And he was very nice. Let’s see, what did I learn from him? [pause] How to eat tacos?

MM: How to eat tacos?BB: Milhaud [pictured] liked taking the class—the five of us—to a little taco stand in Carpinteria. The other thing I learned from him came early and was quite authentic and quite major. We all had to write a work for our summer project, for the composition class. And I wrote a sonatina for violin, oboe and piano. The middle movement was very lyrical and very melodic, and I was very kind of almost ashamed of it?

MM: Ashamed?BB: Yeah, embarrassed by it. Because we all were doing things like [pause] studying with composer and pianist Henry Cowell. You know, fist to the piano and extreme heavy stuff. But when I played my sonatina for Milhaud, we didn’t even talk about it. He just [pause] maybe he sensed my discomfort with the second movement. He said, “Never be afraid… of something… that is melodic… and can be remembered.”

MM: Sounds like a big transition. BB: Yes, it was. And Milhaud knew how to eat tacos, so what could be better than that for the summer? [laughs] He was a very kind man.

MM: Were Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller an influence?BB: Great. I mean, I learned a lot. I did write one song with Jerry [pictured] and his son Jed [Falling Out of Love in 2003]. We were always friends. That’s how I met Dionne [Warwick]. I was rehearsing a background vocal group for the Drifters in 1962 on a song I wrote with Bob Hilliard called Mexican Divorce. Which is where I got to work with and observe Jerry and Mike in the studio.

MM: What was the big takeaway?BB: The big takeaway was I never saw or figured out how Jerry did it.

MM: What do you mean?BB: Mike stayed in the booth mostly. But to go into Bell Sound, which was just a box of a room, and put the Drifters or Ben E. King in there with a background vocal group or a string section plus four guitars and three percussionists—things that are unthinkable now. Nobody could think in those terms then. To get things going like Jerry’s Spanish Harlem [1960], with the leakage in that room. Wow. But watching Jerry, you didn’t know how he pulled it off.

MM: Leiber was quite a producer—an unusual combination for a lyricist.BB: It was. Jerry didn’t know how to write music. He was just a soulful guy. Everyone thought he was part black, but he wasn’t. He was just totally immersed in the culture, the music. We used to hang out together in New York. I learned a lot about recording and producing records just by watching him.

MM: What did you see?BB: He was doing stuff like crowding studios and layering with tape years before Phil Spector. Phil was brilliant—and very nuts. I learned a lot from Jerry, and we remained friends. We always said that in this lifetime we had to write one song together before it’s over. And we finally did in 2003. It took a long time to write, and Aretha got it to record.

MM: Do you like the recording?BB: I made the record... produced the record. It’s called Falling Out of Love. It’s a good song. Could I have made a better record? Yes I could have. Could I have written a better arrangement? Yes, I could have. Should have. You’re not going to get that many cracks at that. I did record Aretha a couple of other times as well, you know. Love her.

JazzWax tracks: Burt Bacharach's recordings divide into several different large categories. There are his pre-1962 hits, his early '60s recordings with Marlene Dietrich when he was her musical director and conductor, his recordings with Hal David for Dionne Warwick, his instrumental sessions for A&M in the '60s and '70s, his theater and movie hits, his non-Warwick hits in the '70s and '80s, and his 1990s recordings and artists who have recorded his works recently.

For starters, Burt's pop recordings from the 1950s are neatly packaged on Burt Bacharach: The First Book of Songs 1954-1958 at Amazon. There's also Rare Bacharach: 1956-78 at Amazon. Or The Look of Love: The Burt Bacharach Collection, a three CD set at Amazon. Marlene Dietrich With the Burt Bacharach Orchestra also is superb. You'll find it at Amazon.

November 27, 2011

Drummer Paul Motian (1931-2011), perhaps best known for his perceptive, shimmering cymbals and hit-and-run snare work in Bill Evans' monumental first trio, died on Nov. 22. He was 80. [Pictured from left at the Vanguard in '61: Bassist Scott LaFaro, pianist Bill Evans and drummer Paul Motian]

Among the trio's best-known recordings are the Riverside albums Sunday at the Village Vanguard and Waltz for Debby, both recorded live at New York's Village Vanguard in June 1961.

Here's Motian quoted by Adam Gopnik in the August 2001 New Yorker on the 40th anniversary of the trio's famed Vanguard sessions:

"We were great. But look at this—I got $136 for the famous legendary record, $110 for the gig, and $107 for the second record. Look at my gig book: here we are at the D.C. Showplace. That's where Bill said, first night, second night, 'Ladies and gentlemen—I don't feel like playing tonight. Can you understand that?'

"And they kind of did. Bill was sincere, and he had a great sense of humor. He was good, but I was good with him, you know, because I listened. We listened to each other, and you can still hear us listening when we play.

"[Bassist] Scott [LaFaro] was tough on Bill. He was the one man who could be tough on Bill. Like if he didn't think the music sounded right—if it was great but not perfect—he'd say to Bill, 'Man, you're just fucking up the music. Go back and look at yourself in the mirror!'

"He'd even say it to me, when he didn't think I was playing right. And he had only been playing the bass for a few years...

"You know what I like best on that record? The sounds of all those people, glasses and chatter—I mean, I know you're supposed to be very offended and all, but I like it. They're just there and all."

Here's the Bill Evans Trio in 1959, playing When I Fall in Love, with Paul Motian on drums and Scott LaFaro on bass...

Andrea True (1943-2011), an adult-movie actress whose moment of stardom didn't come in film but in a single disco record, died Nov. 7. She was 68.

The hit was More, More, More, which reached No. 4 on the Billboard Hot 100 chart and No. 2 on the dance chart in 1976—a particularly potent year for disco. In the years prior to the release of Saturday Night Fever in December 1977, disco was largely a hip, cult genre fueled largely by independent record labels, low-key urban clubs and adventurous disc jockeys. In disco's early years, soul-dance vocalists such as Vicki Sue Robinson, Gloria Gaynor and Donna Summer dominated the solo female vocalist niche.

But despite the formidable competition, there still was room for one-hit wonders like Penny McLean (Lady Bump), Tina Charles (You Set My Heart on Fire), Retta Young (Sending Out an SOS) and others. Into this mix came Andrea True at the end of January 1976 with More, More, More, a bouncy tune with an addictive, chunky beat.

Recorded at Federal Records in Jamaica in late '75 using a studio band hastily assembled locally and named the Andrea True Connection, the12-inch single was released at first only in clubs like Chameleon and 12 West in New York, the DCA Club in Philadelphia and 15 Lansdowne St. in Boston. Interestingly, buzz for the single began not on the radio but on the dance floors, where record company executives measured a song's potential by the number of people rushing out to do the hustle.

What's perhaps most interesting about Andrea True Connection is that all of the tracks on the More, More, More album—produced, arranged and mostly written by drummer Gregg Diamond—turned out to be equally as good as the hit, a rarity for disco albums at the time.

Russ Garcia. As JazzWax reader John Guerrasio in London reminded me last week, fans of the late Russ Garcia should not overlook his string arrangements on Margaret Whiting Sings Jerome Kern, Vols. 1 and 2. You'll find both on one CD at Amazon. Whiting is superb on the session.

Wrecking Crew. If you're in Boston on Dec. 17, Denny Tedesco will be screening The Wrecking Crew—his documentary on the group of Los Angeles studio musicians who played on hundreds of pop-rock hits in the 1960s. Denny is the son of guitarist Tommy Tedesco. I've seen this documentary, and it's fabulous. Where: Regent Theater, 7 Medford St., Arlington, Mass. (781-646-4849). When: 7 p.m. Tickets: $8 to $15. More information.

CD discoveries of the week. Ilhan Ersahin's Istanbul Sessions: Night Rider (Nublu) is riff-jazz electronica at its best. Ersahin's tenor saxophone joins the big electric bass of Alp Ersonmez, exotic percussion of Izzet Kizil and fusion drums of Turgut Alp Bekoglu. Each track sets up a funky mood that reverberates with Eastern and Western global touches. This is another one of those experimental jazz albums that takes risks and works. Dig Etnik, Birds and Black Sea. You'll find this one at iTunes and Amazon. More on Ilhan Ersahin at his site.

Composer Ralph Rainger was active between 1930 and 1942, when he died aboard a passenger plane that collided with an Army Air Corps bomber. Among Rainger's many hit songs are Moanin' Low, Easy Living, Thanks for the Memory, I Wished on the Moon and June in January. Many of his finest songs are given the jazz treatment by the Chuck Berghofer Trio on Thanks for the Memory: The Film Music of Ralph Rainger (Fresh Sound). Joining bassist Berghofer are Jan Lundgren on piano and Joe La Barbera on drums. Singer Sue Raney appears on two tracks, including the title tune. This trio allows you to appreciate how truly relaxed and coaxing Rainger's melody lines were. You'll find this one at iTunes and Amazon.

Oddball album covers of the week. Many jazz purists like to think of rock and roll as the genre that wiped out recording opportunities for jazz musicians on both coasts. But it's important to remember that before rock took over completely, jazz musicians did try to scramble onto the teenage bandwagon, if only to earn a few bucks to pay the rent. Here are two examples of jazz musicians' early attempts to hang with the kids and deliver a bigger beat. One LP is by Stan Kenton's sassy saxophonist Vido Musso. Could the other be by Lydian Chromatic Concept pioneer George Russell? Or British guitarist George Russell? A careful look at the cover tells us that the hep track lineup includes the Hokey Pokey, which would soon become a crowd-pleaser at wedding parties everywhere.

November 25, 2011

The week of December 11 will mark a special day in Motown history. Fifty years ago, the two-year-old label had its first No. 1 Billboard pop hit. Earlier in 1961, Smokey Robinson had the label's first No. 1 hit on the R&B chart. But a No. 1 pop hit was a big deal, showing that Motown could crossover and connect with white teens. The group that pulled off that landmark recording was the Marvelettes and the song was Please Mr. Postman. The song has a fascinating history, as original Marvelette Katherine Anderson Schaffner relates in my article in today's Wall Street Journal. [Pictured at top, from left: Kat Anderson, Wanda Young and Gladys Horton, circa 1966]

But the song was more than just a pop chart-topper in 1961. By connecting with white and black teens coast to coast, Please Mr. Postman helped move the civil rights movement forward, serving as a teen election of sorts that ignored racial divides in favor of moving music. The song's success also signaled to Motown founder Berry Gordy that the label could build on the Marvelettes' formula and become a national brand rather than remain a small independent Detroit label. The Marvelettes also opened a new door for all girl groups, which until then had been doo-wop novelties and fringe vocal groups.

Here's my conversation with Kat, 67, about how the Marvelettes got its start, how Please Mr. Postman was recorded, and what life was like for a quintet of singing teens:

Marc Myers: Growing up in Inkster, Mich., where did you live?Katherine Anderson Schaffner: I lived in the Carver Homes projects that Henry Ford developed for people who moved up from the South to work at his car factories. These projects weren’t apartment buildings, like in New York or Chicago. They were duplex houses and subdivided homes. Inkster is about a half hour from Detroit.

MM: Did you listen to the radio?KAS: In the late ‘50s, when I was a teen, as soon as you stepped outside you could hear music coming from every different house. I listened to all kinds of music then—rock and roll, Etta James, Dinah Washington, Little Willie John, Bo Diddley [pictured], Bill Doggett—you name it. But I didn’t start buying records until after I was a Marvelette. Records were too expensive.

MM: What did your father do?KAS: My dad was a cement finisher. His job was to make sure the cement was even and smooth as it poured out of the mixer. My mother was a housekeeper and then went to work at Eloise Hospital [pictured] in Westland, Mich., as a nurse’s aide. I have one sister and two brothers. My older brother died in 1993 of cancer. My baby brother is the only surviving boy.

MM: When did you start singing?KAS: In high school. I sang with the glee club and chorus. I also sang with some church gospel groups. In 1960, a few friends and I formed a vocal quintet to compete in a talent contest. The group was Gladys Horton, Georgia Dobbins, Georgeanna Tillman, Juanita Cowart and me. Gladys, Juanita and Georgeanna sang alto. Georgia and I sang soprano. [Photo from left of Georgia Dobbins, Juanita Motley and Kat Anderson Schaffner earlier this year by Larry Buford]

MM: How did you come up with your name, the Marvelettes? KAS: We had a different name at first. Once we started rehearsing as a group, we began thinking up names for the group. This was just before the high school talent show. While we rehearsed, Gladys [pictured] pointed out that we couldn’t really sing yet as a group because we had just gotten started. Then it hit her. She said we should call ourselves the Cansinyets—“because we can’t sing yet.” We all fell out laughing when she said that, but we decided to keep it because we needed a name for the contest. The prize for the top three finalists was an audition at a new record company called Motown.

MM: How did you do?KAS: We came in fourth. But that didn’t stop us. We just asked one of our teachers, Shirley Sharpley, to get us an audition at Motown. The label agreed. She knew Berry Gordy's driver. Just goes to show that it always pays to ask [laughs]. At the time, Motown didn’t have that many acts. They had Mary Wells [pictured], the Miracles and the Satintones. So they were hungry for new acts.

MM: What did you sing at your audition?KAS: We sang two or three numbers. I think one was a Shirelles song and the other was by the Chantels. We had to pattern ourselves on someone who was out there and well known.

MM: Who sang lead?KAS: I didn’t sing lead because I was a soprano and my voice wasn’t commercial enough. I didn’t have the sound they were looking for. Gladys, on the other hand, had a high alto sound, which was perfect. After the audition, Motown said they liked us but wanted us to bring in original material to record. This was before they could afford staff writers and all that, which would come a few years later. [Pictured: Motown's Berry Gordy in the label's Hitsville studios]

MM: What happened when you left the studio?KAS: Georgia said she knew a pianist friend named William Garrett, who lived near us in the projects and played blues. When she went to see Garrett, he had a valise of sheet music, some with just titles on them. Georgia found a title she liked—Please Mr. Postman— and asked if she could have it. He said that was fine, and the two of them collaborated on the song. The words came easily for Georgia. She had a boyfriend in the Navy, and she was always waiting on a letter from him.

JW: What did you think?KAS: When Georgia brought the song to us, we learned the words that she and Garrett had written. But once we were back at Motown to audition the song, the producers and musicians there started to fool around with it. They increased the tempo, added a new beat and made it more up to date. Everyone wanted to add their mark to the song. We were just teens and too young to know that someone could take a song and add words. Someone at Motown added the line, “Deliver the letter, the sooner the better.” We sang the song a cappella, and they loved it. Motown gave us contracts to take home for our parents to sign. We were all still in high school, going into our senior year.

MM: What happened when you got home?KAS: I never thought my mother would sign. She didn’t really care one way or the other but my father said that this could be my golden opportunity so my mother didn’t stand in my way. Then he said, “We can trust her.”

MM: Did anyone in the group have a problem at home? KAS: Georgia’s father wouldn’t sign. Georgia’s mother was very ill, and Georgia’s father worked two jobs and wanted her around to take care of the family’s four boys. She gave her part to Gladys, who was a close friend of hers. Georgia was so broken-hearted—and she stayed that way for some time, especially after the group became famous. She was replaced by Wanda Young, who had already graduated from high school and sang soprano. [Pictured above, from left: Juanita Cowart, Georgeanna Tillman, Gladys Horton, Wanda Young and Kat Anderson]

MM: When did you head back to Motown?KAS: About two weeks later. We called ourselves the Marvels. But as the song came together in rehearsal, Motown realized they had something in us. They said we had to change our names to something better. Someone came up with Marvelettes.

MM: How did the session go?KAS: Once the music and words were set for Please Mr. Postman, we began to record. Gladys sang lead, and they worked her until she became hoarse. That’s the version they liked and the one you hear on the record.

MM: Was it exciting to have a hit?KAS: Yes but we were still in school. But as Motown held its revues, audiences started screaming for us. Motown said if we didn’t join the show, they would put in five ringers to keep the audiences happy. So we quit school and turned pro. When Please Mr. Postman became a No. 1 pop hit in December 1961, we didn’t find out until later. We were touring. Besides, we didn’t even know there were things called "charts."

MM: Having a No. 1 pop hit was a big deal. KAS: Yes it was. We kicked open the door for everyone else at Motown to walk though. I think the song connected with both girls and boys, blacks and whites, because everyone has been in a situation where they’ve waited for a letter. Instead of songs about love or breaking up, it was about waiting for the mail. It was a different approach. The song’s words clearly connected more with girls, which made sense, since they were buying a lot of records.

MM: Who choreographed your dance steps?KAS: For the first few years we did all of our own steps. We used to do whatever we liked, and the routines were absolutely phenomenal. Most of our steps were based on the latest dances. We also tended to do songs that were fast paced, really amped up. MM: Did Motown choreographer Cholly Atkins work with you?KAS: Yes. By 1965 our routines changed. Cholly [pictured] cut out the dancing and added more polished steps. He said, “You don’t have to do all that dancing, you just need to do a few steps.” He typically had us stepping out and swinging our arms.

MM: What about Motown’s famous finishing school?KAS: The Marvelettes didn’t have to go through too much of the label’s finishing school. Most other groups on the label did. The reason is that we were already established with Please Mr. Postman and other hits. And being on the road most of the time—performing six or seven shows a day on the weekends—we didn’t have time to return to Detroit for lessons with Maxine Powell [pictured]. She taught everyone how to sit and do this or that with etiquette.

MM: On the road, you were the co-manager, weren’t you?KAS: Yes. I sang the highest and was the tallest, at 5-foot, 7½-inches. We’d be chaperoned by adults but I’d be responsible for things like picking out our uniforms and jewelry, and picking up the money at gigs. I’d count the bills and give them to our driver, who got the money back to Detroit after he took out some for our expenses. I never had a problem with the count because I always collected before the gig, so the money was always right.

MM: And you grew rich.KAS: [Laughs]. Not quite. Most people don’t realize that most of the expenses were ours. We had to rent the cars, get the hotel rooms, pay the restaurant bills. After we put out the money, we’d get reimbursed from our cut when all was tallied back in Detroit.

MM: Was the road hard?KAS: Fans know we were young, but I don’t think they realized how young. We were kids but looked like we were in our 20s because of how we dressed and carried ourselves. Early on, we didn’t wear wigs, but later we did. At first I wore a weave in my hair. But after sweating quite a bit during performances, I switched to a wig. I perspired so much I had to take salt tablets. Wigs were just easier to take care of than your hair. You could roll up the wig at night and it would be ready to go at the next performance. [Pictured: Georgeanna Tillman]

MM: Did you practice a lot?KAS: Show business was and is tough. Fans only hear the finished product and assume it all took just minutes and was a lot of fun. The truth is we were always rehearsing or touring. If we didn’t have to record anything, we would be working on new songs and routines or playing concerts and revues.

MM: You created the model at Motown.KAS: We did. Even though the Supremes were there before us, we had the first No. 1 pop record, which allowed us to go out there and pave the way for everyone else.

MM: Was there competition at Motown?KAS: Yes. Martha Reeves [pictured] came to the label after we were already recording. Mary Wells was a solo act, so there really wasn’t much competition there. But Martha Reeves of the Vandellas had an issue with us once she started recording. She wanted things her way. And when things didn’t go her way, she would get angry.

MM: The Marvelettes were offered Where Did Our Love Go?KAS: Yes, in1964. But we decided to pass. That may seem foolish now, but the song wasn’t really right for us. We were always very high-energy, and that song was a little too laid back for us. We’d always sing uptempo tunes and danced a lot to charge up audiences. Wanda was the one who turned down the song after singing the lead sheet. Instead, we opted for Locking Up My Heart, which was faster and bouncier.MM: Did you like the Supremes?KAS: Of course. We sang different things, but I liked them a lot. Their success didn’t make us feel self-conscious though. Maybe Martha Reeves had a problem with them. When they changed the Supremes’ name to Diana Ross and the Supremes, that’s when Martha insisted that her group be called Martha Reeves and the Vandellas.

MM: The Marvelettes didn’t change its name though.KAS: We didn’t because we wanted to be known as the Marvelettes—and we had two lead singers, Gladys and Wanda. My feeling was that there was plenty of room for everyone. Each group had hits and its own sound.

MM: Fond memories of the past?KAS: Looking back, I enjoyed the fact that I had an opportunity to travel to so many different parts of the U.S. and around the world. Most of the time, when you’re from a small place like Inkster, you don’t get that chance. We met Little Richard, the Staple Singers, Aretha Franklin, the Jackson Five and so many others. We were on tour with many artists being recorded by Motown and Stax.

MM: And Georgia Dobbins?KAS: I still speak with Georgia today. She’s still upset that her father didn’t let her join the group and record and doesn’t like to talk publicly about the group. In 2005, when the Marvelettes were presented with a gold record for Please Mr. Postman by Motown, we insisted that Georgia get a gold record, too—even though she wasn't officially a Marvelette at the time. But she was the song’s co-writer and we felt she should share in the recognition. She was so happy. [Pictured: Kat Anderson Schaffner earlier this year holding two gold records awarded to the Marvelettes for Please Mr. Postman and Don't Mess With Bill]

MM: Sing a line from Please Mr. Postman for me.KAS: [Laughs] Oh, no. I don’t sing anymore. I keep a pretty low profile. When my children were growing up, I didn’t want them to tell their friends about me. I assumed that if they said, “My mother was one of the Marvelettes,” other kids would resent them and pick fights. Now, I’m more willing to talk about the Marvelettes. I don’t want any of our fans to think I’m untouchable. [Pictured: Kat Anderson]

JazzWax clips: Here are the Marvelettes in 1965 singing Please Mr. Postman. From left, that's Wanda Young, Katherine Anderson and Gladys Horton. By 1965, the group had been reduced to a trio after two members departed...

The Marvelettes were a surprisingly democratic group without a diva. In this 1965 clip of Don't Mess With Bill, Wanda Young sings lead as Kat and Horton sing backup. By the way, Kat told me the dresses and bows were Tiffany blue...

And here are the Marvelettes singing Please Mr. Postman when they were a quartet, during a Motown Revue at New York's Apollo Theater in 1963. From the left, that's Wanda Young, Kat Anderson, Georgeanne Tillman and Gladys Horton. The Supremes would not have their first hit for another year...

November 24, 2011

Last year I served Thanksgiving dinner for song-minded readers. This year the JazzWax audience has expanded, so I was up early shopping and preparing a larger musical feast. Remember, no grabbing, no reaching across plates, and be sure to use the right fork. To all my JazzWax readers worldwide, Happy Thanksgiving. Dig in!

November 23, 2011

Pianist Teddy Napoleon played steadily with Gene Krupa's Orchestra from 1944 until the late '40s, continuing with the drummer's bands intermittently throughout the '50s. Teddy was the older brother of Marty Napoleon.

The snapshot above comes from Betty's fabulous collection of photos, sent along by her friend Chris. Betty has donated all of her prints, including this one, to Rutgers University's Institute of Jazz Studies. But since she and Chris also are big JazzWax readers, they wanted you to see them, too.

Want more JazzSnaps? Go to the right-hand column of JazzWax and scroll down to "JazzSnaps" for links.

Here's Gene Krupa in George White's Scandals (1945). Napoleon is seen briefly on piano in Ed Finckel's arrangement of Leave Us Leap, one of the great drum film scenes of all time...

November 22, 2011

A few weeks ago I was sitting next to Burt Bacharach on an overstuffed sofa in his living room at his home in Pacific Palisades, Calif. We were the only ones in the house, and it was a gloriously warm early autumn afternoon, with the ocean fog just starting to roll in. I was there to interview the last of the great songwriters for the Wall Street Journal. The peg? Burt's new musical—Some Lovers—which begins previews at San Diego's Old Globe on Saturday. My article on Burt is in today's paper—or online if you're a subscriber. On Monday I will start a multipart JazzWax series on Burt and my visit with him.

For now, a few words about one of Burt's masterpieces—Do You Know the Way to San Jose—which is probably my favorite Burt Bacharach-Hal David tune after Alfie. (Promises, Promises and One Less Bell to Answer are up there, too.)

Though the melody, tempo and arrangement are cheery, the words tell a different story. The lyrics are about a Los Angeles transplant who couldn't make it and has had it with the city's freeways, stars who never were and disposable culture, and wants to return to the sanity and tranquility of San Jose (hey, it was 1968).

That's Gary Chester [pictured] on drums—the East Coast's Hal Blaine who recorded on hundreds of pop recordings in the '60s and '70s. When I saw Hal Blaine a few weeks ago in New York, I asked if he had known Chester. Hal said he never got a chance to meet him but wished he had since, he said, he had admired his work for years. [You may recall that Gary Chester is on drums in D.A. Pennebaker's Audition at RCA, featuring Dave Lambert.]

I find it's impossible to keep my feet still while listening to Do You Know the Way to San Jose. Dionne Warwick won her first Grammy for the song in 1968, and while Dionne's smokey, urgent voice is intoxicating, dig Gary Chester's driving bass drum and wiry brushwork. Remarkable.

We'll pick up on my conversation with Burt on Monday. Plenty of posts between now and then though. And be sure to stop by on Thanksgiving. I'll be serving quite a feast.

JazzWax clips: Let's have a listen to a handful of great Do You Know the Way to San Joses:

November 21, 2011

Russ Garcia, an early West Coast jazz-classical theorist, composer, arranger and teacher whose trombone-centric big band scores in the 1950s could swing with pixie delight and jack-hammer power, died on Nov. 20. He was 95.

Just two weeks ago, Russ and his wife Gina "attended" two birthday tribute concerts on a laptop screen via Skype. The concerts were staged in Oakland, Calif., and New York by singer Shaynee Rainbolt in tribute of the arranger's birthday back in April. Russ had been scheduled to attend both concerts—but a collapsed vertebra compelled his doctor to advise against the trip. Which must have been tough for Russ, since his energy level, optimism and conducting hands were unaffected by the affliction.

Russ began as a trumpet player in the late 1930s and showed an early ability to arrange for bands. He gravitated toward arranging the way most children take apart gadgets to find out why they don't work. Unsure why his first arrangement for Me and My Shadow didn't sound as expected, he bought a stock arrangement and figured out the problem. The rest came easily, he said. [Pictured: Russ Garcia with Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald]

After World War II, Russ took at job as a teacher at the Westlake College of Music, a California school set up to instruct the growing number of musicians settling in the Los Angeles area who wanted to learn multiple instruments and arrange for movies, television and recording sessions. Russ taught a young Bill Holman among other aspiring musician-veterans who were eligible for a free education under the G.I. Bill.

His first credited arrangement was for Harry James in 1947—It's Awfully Lovely Out Tonight—when James carried a big band and full orchestra with strings, though the single went unissued. Russ also wrote for Buddy DeFranco's Orchestra in 1953 (Love Is for the Very Young and From Here to Eternity) and Bud Shank's quintet with strings in 1954. Russ embarked on a prolific pace in the 1950s, often being brought in to ghost-complete orchestrations for records and films that other arrangers could not finish in time.

Among Russ' most notable albums in the 1950s was Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong: Porgy & Bess, which some people called "Whipped Cream and Sandpaper," Russ said.

In the late '40s, Russ wrote one of the first "how to" books for arrangers interested in commercial band and movie scoring. Entitled The Professional Arranger-Composer, Russ wrote it by simply expanding on his instruction outline for his college classes and having his wife run off copies. It's still in print today.

In the '50s, Russ was one of the most highly regarded big band arrangers in Hollywood, which was already poulated by fast, brilliant writer-orchestrators competing for work in the pop and jazz markets. Russ' particular gift was giving trombone sections a voice. Instead of using them as an occasional blare, Russ scored trombones as a dominant choir, teasing out their natural appeal to the human ear. He recorded several albums with his four-trombone band, including several with vocalists.

Russ and his wife Gina became members of the Bahá'í faith in 1955, and in 1966 they sold all of their possessions to buy a boat and sail around the world as Bahá'í teachers. Eventually, Russ was invited to perform and conduct in New Zealand, where he and his wife bought a house and settled.

But the move may have cost him an Oscar statue. According to Russ, he had orchestrated Charlie Chaplin's Limelight in 1952. But when the film was awarded an Oscar for Best Score in 1972, Russ had already retreated to New Zealand from the Hollywood scene, and the statue was given to Larry Russell in error, Russ said. [Russ Garcia with Charlie Chaplin]

According to Russ, the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences had goofed, mixing up Russell Garcia and Larry Russell. But there was little way to iron out the error. By 1972, Larry Russell had died and his family had accepted the statue on his behalf, seemingly unaware of Russell Garcia's claimed role. Despite repeated efforts by JazzWax and other blogs to convince the Academy to review the original score for Russell Garcia's orchestration stamp, nothing has been done to clear the air.

Sadly, Russ never received credit from the Academy for the film, and the Academy never conducted an official investigation or issued a public statement on the matter. Larry Russell's family contends that Larry Russell and not Russ was the film's orchestrator, leaving the entire matter in limbo. [Pictured: Charlie Chaplin after being awarded an Oscar]

For Russ, such matters weren't front-burner issues anyway. In fact, I brought up the matter during our interview after discovering a 1985 interview while researching him prior to our conversation. Russ said at the time that he was hesitant to rehash old matters but agreed to answer questions.

In the '60s, Russ shifted to science-fiction movie soundtracks that were more experimental than traditional jazz scores, leaving some purists to raise an eyebrow and overlook his earlier jazz contributions. More recently, Shaynee Rainbolt discovered his recordings and convinced Russ to collaborate with her on Charmed Life: Shaynee Rainbolt Sings Russell Garcia.

A concert was held in 2008 at New York's Highline Ballroom, featuring Shaynee and Russ' charts for his trombone band, with Russ there to conduct. Upon meeting Russ after the concert, I had a few minutes with him. What seemed to matter most to Russ as we spoke was that I had enjoyed the arrangements.

When I told him I did but was distracted, Russ seemed taken aback momentarily. Then I told him I couldn't decide which was more fascinating—the orchestrations or his remarkable style of conducting, which was a throwback to the studios of the '50s. That's when I saw the famous twinkle in Russ' eye, the twinkle that always betrayed how he really felt about jazz, swing and big bands.

I'm going to miss those emails from "Uncle Russ."

JazzWax tracks: Russ Garcia arranged and conducted many superb albums in the '50s, many of which are available on CD. Here are my favorites:

The George Gershwin Songbook (1954)—Buddy DeFranco with Oscar Peterson

November 20, 2011

Is music's influence in American society dwindling? If so, what impact will music's declining import have on how we behave and treat each other? And is part of the reason for our new national divisiveness and crankiness a direct result of music's public retreat?

For all of the vast libraries of digital music we own on our computers and all of the portable music players that enable us to tote around thousands of songs, music seems to be less important now to our culture than it once was. Tempo and beat are no longer an integral part of America's collective character, and we're fast becoming a nation of sour pusses.

Think back: public America in the '40s and '50s was awash in music—from radio and records to dances and concerts. There were jukeboxes, radio stations, record stores, clubs, charts marking the hits, hops and dozens of music publications. Even the designs of food boxes, cars and sign typography reflected the rhythm of the day. Music meant excitement and thrills, and the way people walked reflected a society heavily influenced by bands, beats and harmony. The words "hip" and "groove" didn't come out of thin air.

America's grand obsession with music and harmony continued into the '60s, '70s, '80s and even '90s—from folk-rock to MTV. In all those decades, music was consumed in groups. At homes, friends gathered to listen to records or watch music videos. In public, there were clubs, concerts in parks, festivals and transistor radios that millions of people tuned into simultaneously. Music was public and an ever-present part of the culture, and had an uplifting impact on our psyche.

But starting with the rise of downloading in the early 2000s and demise of record stores—where everyday people could pop into a public space and hear what was new—music began to become privatized. With ubiquitous white headphones came a culture that views music as something you consume in isolation. Music you experience in public now is the stuff that clothing stores and restaurants blast or iPod listeners crank up with annoyance on buses—not something we share, admire and think about together.

I recall visiting large record stores like Tower and Virgin in New York in the late 1990s. You'd put on a headset and listen to music as you flipped through CDs. You'd also listen to new albums that store clerks were playing through the store speaker systems. Mind you, I'm not nostalgic for record or CD stores per se. But I do miss the collective act of consuming music at reasonable volumes, of asking what's playing or discovering a new band because a kid in the store urges me to check it out.

If music soothes the savage breast, then what's to become of us as music continues to retreat into personal files and folders? Here's my suggestion: We have enough public parks in this country. I think towns and cities (or Apple) should now create large-scale music zones broken out into sections, like in CD stores of old, where anyone can stop in, listen to old and new music and strike up conversations about it. And download for a fee if they wish. Such spaces wouldn't have to earn a profit. But I'm sure they would go far to put smiles back on Americans' faces—before it's too late.

Coleman Hawkins. New York's WKCR-FM will start its annual Coleman Hawkins Birthday Broadcast at midnight, playing the tenor saxophonist's smooth, bearish lines around the clock until Monday at midnight. You can tune in on your computer from anywhere in the world by going to WKCR.org.

David Amram. Last Thursday was David's 81st birthday. And on David's birthday, I traditionally give him a call. I call nearly all of my jazz legend pals on their birthdays, but David is a little different. Part of the fun is trying to figure out where he is at the precise moment I call.

Last year, as you may recall, I caught David filling his car at a gas station along a New York highway. This year, he was halfway into a plate of huevos rancheros at a diner in Tulsa Okla. He had just been inducted into the Oklahoma Jazz Hall of Fame and given a Lifetime Achievement Award. He also had performed jazz and conducted an orchestra playing his classical compositions.

David said he was about to split for Paso Robles, Calif., where this weekend he is receiving the first Bruce Ricker Lifetime Achievement Award from The Paso Digital Film Festival, commemorating Clint Eastwood and Bruce Ricker's 30 years of documenting jazz in film. He also will perform a jazz concert in San Luis Obispo. [Pictured: the late Bruce Ricker, left, with Clint Eastwood]

Not bad for the hep jazz mayor of Greenwich Village. Happy Birthday, David!

Jordi Pujol. Dick Bank, a West Coast record producer, sent along the following note in the wake of my recent interview with Fresh Sound's Jordi Pujol.

"I have known and worked with Jordi Pujol for almost 20 years. In the mid-1980s, I began to hear recordings on the radio from the 1950s that had disappeared from the airwaves and record stores years earlier. There were no pops or clicks on the recordings—they were new. I soon discovered that the source was a company in Spain called Fresh Sound.

"At first, I was sure the recordings were bootlegs. But I soon learned that this company had licensed all of the music from the labels. Bill Perkins and Frank Strazzeri both knew Jordi Pujol, the owner, and told me that he had been coming to Los Angeles for years and that all the players from the ‘50s knew him. The next time he was in town, they said, they’d invite me to dinner. When Jordi and I met, his passion for the music was obvious.

"When I began to produce my own recordings, I asked Jordi if he would issue them because no one else was interested. The recordings featured musicians from the ‘50s who were playing better than ever. Jordi gave me carte blanche.

"I was never told whom to record, what tunes to do, or which studio I had to use. Where most booklets are four to eight pages, he didn’t balk when mine were 32 pages—the absolute limit for a jewel case. Jordi absorbed the cost of pressing and issuing these albums, which I could not have afforded, not to mention world-wide distribution.

"I have found Jordi to be a selfless man. I have never heard him use bad language or speak unkindly of others. With record stores a thing of the past and the business at best precarious, he soldiers on.

"Anyone who would say disparaging things about Jordi really doesn’t know him or his love for the music and his desire to see the recordings available again in a better quality than when it was originally issued.

"People of his type are from my generation, even though he was born when these albums originally were recorded. They are few and far between today."

The lick. You've heard this endlessly but probably never realized it. Legendary record promoter Dick LaPalm sent along the following clip...

'Little' Jimmy Scott. Blogger Jason Hoffer recently conducted an interview with singer 'Little' Jimmy Scott. You can hear a podcast of their conversation at GoingThruVinyl.com.

CD discoveries of the week. If you miss Amy Winehouse, you'll find traces of her sound in Sarah Elizabeth Charles, the female vocalist on Enoch Smith Jr.'s Misfits (Music4MyPeople). Actually, Charles' voice is stronger, prettier and less cranky. And if Charles' all-in vocals aren't enough, wait until you hear pianist Smith, his eight originals and his arrangements throughout. There's a story-telling, gospel vibe here, but with enormous soul. Joining Smith and Charles are bassist Noah Jackson and drummer Sangmin Lee, who frame Smith perfectly with sensitivity and tenderness. Dig Wise Man,I Want You and I Won't Complain. This is new jazz at its best. You'll find this one at CD Baby. More on Smith and Charles at their sites.

Saxophonist Bill Kirchner has never been satisfied arranging or playing standards as written. On both One Starry Night (1987) and Old Friends (2008)—both of which have just been released as downloads—he turns jazz standards inside out and winds up with highly energized, brawling results. For instance, his nonet on the '87 date takes on Sergio Mendes' So Many Stars, delivering a Thad Jones & Mel Lewis Orchestra meets Charles Mingus knockout interpretation. Or dig Ralph Lalama's tenor power on Andy LaVerne's Maximum Density. On Old Friends, it's just Bill and pianist Marc Copland. Bill weaves his soprano through Johnny Mandel's Keester Parade as boldly as he does on Miles Davis' Agitation and Wayne Shorter's Footprints. Bill has an ability to drill down below the surface of a song and fearlessly reach around from an emotional and technical perspective, finding new musical corners and aspects you may have missed. You'll find One Starry Night and Old Friends at Amazon.

Harold O'Neal is a fascinating pianist. On Marvelous Fantasy (Smalls), he records solo in honor of Harold Pennington, his great grandfather and silent-film pianist. This isn't Keystone Kops stuff. Each piece has enormous depth and classical tension. Think silent-film romantic moments. The beauty of this music is that you're hearing it without the silent films running, so you are left only with the rich accompaniment, not the dated images or storylines. O'Neal attended the Berklee College of Music and the Manhattan School of Music, where he studied with pianist Kenny Barron. Sample Miya and Mr. Piccolo. You'll find this gem at Amazon. More on O'Neal at his site.

I'm a pushover for This Could Be the Start of Something Big. I'd love the song even if cats were meowing it on a fence. Pianist Yoko Miwa plays it beautifully for more than 11 minutes with bassist Greg Laughman and drummer Scott Goulding on her fifth CD, Live at Scullers Jazz Club. It's picture perfect. Miwa performs most frequently in Boston, where she teaches at the Berklee College of Music. Also worth noting are Miwa's originals Mr. B.G. and Silent Promise, which build with passion and grace. You'll find this one at iTunes or Amazon. More on Miwa at her site.

The Le Boeuf Brothers are a crafty pair. Remy plays reeds and Pascal plays keyboards and sings. On In Praise of Shadows (Nineteen-Eight), the identical twins combine fusion energy with electronica, producing a spiritual, contemporary sound that takes you back and pushes you forward. The pair create acoustic-electronic collages that focus more on mood than melody, but the music is engaging just the same. Dig Red Velvet, Fire Dancing Dreams and D2D. You'll find this one at iTunes and Amazon. More on the Le Boeuf Brothers at their site.

Oddball album cover of the week:Beat Girl (1960) was a British film with a surf-guitar score by John Barry, who would soon be orchestrating music for James Bond films. In fact, much of the music on this album was a prototype for the lounge fare that would wind up shaken, not stirred. But enough of that. On to our cover. First, it seems that in the late '50s, tough guys customarily bit their nails in front of potential mates when they weren't sure what to do. As for women, this adolescent habit usually caused them to check out other guys, as they appear to be doing here if you look closely (click to enlarge). Interestingly, male indecision still isn't big with women. As for tough guys, today they get their nails done.

About

Marc Myers writes on music and the arts for The Wall Street Journal. He is author of "Why Jazz Happened" (Univ. of California Press). Founded in 2007, JazzWax is a Jazz Journalists Association's "Blog of the Year" winner.